The faucet is open all the way,
water roaring into his bottle.
He twists it again,
harder,
though it can’t give more.

He’s talking, laughing,
but his hand keeps turning,
wanting more flow,
faster filling,
an impossible hurry.

It doesn’t matter how much he gets,
or how quickly.
He’ll always crave
a fuller rush,
a flood that never satisfies.